Where walks by day the peaceful Eve?
In Heaven's own gardens, believe,
She gathers the delight
Which, hoarded up from hour to hour
In her sweet breast, the faithful Power
Brings down to earth at night.
Come, gentle Eve! She will not hear:
The distant fields are bold and clear,
Though from the sultry west
The clouds their progress have begun,
And with poised orb the crimson sun
Is waiting for his rest.
She heard—she comes!—anear, afar!
Already her first twinkling star
Is caught among the trees;
And odours which the day confined
Are loading with a grateful mind
Her liberating breeze.
May, violet, primrose, all and each
She welcomes with a kindly speech,
Which, passing on the air,
Cheers every root; nor ill content
Leans the low daisy on the bent,
For she hath had her share.
Meek subject, Evening, of thy reign,
The river vails his glittering train,
And round the misty field
Flows silently, his easier breast,
(With warring lights no more distrest,)
Half seen and half concealed.
With what a spirit-light the trees
Attire themselves at thy first breeze!
—A light as it were thrown
From that deep joy that works like grief;
Which now in every delicate leaf
Is settling into stone.
Nor lifeless things alone obey
Thy rule: beneath the alders gray
The dazzling gnats appear,
Thy minstrelsy!—a humble quire,
Yet joyful as the festive lyre
If but the heart can hear.
High delegate of Heaven's own rest!
If man's impure and anxious breast
Thy loveliness despise,
How thankful is the innocent earth!
How gladly pour their welcome forth
The unpolluted skies!
Earth's sweetest scent, Air's fairest light
Are thine by immemorial right;
Thine is the grateful boon
Of waters locked in calmest shine;
These jetty trees are only thine,
And thine this crescent moon!
What wouldst thou more? Benignant Power,
Art thou disquiet in thy bower
So brightly decked, so fair?
Alas! the voices which the best
Should thank thee for thy peace and rest,
How seldom they are there!
Not for thyself, for us thy brow
So oft with an uneasy glow
Is flushed, thy peaceful eyes
Are vexed with tresses all undecked
And gloom, reproach of the neglect
It almost justifies.
Yet walkest thou not in vain, sweet Eve,
At least to-night, we may believe,
From this resplendent face,
Though oft denial, breeding doubt,
Leave not thy cheeriest look without
Its melancholy grace.